


Those Stumbling Words That Told You What My Heart Meant

by brianmay_be



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Episode: s01e08 The Last Patrol, Fluff, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, and speirs frets over his sick first sergeant, can be read as romantic or platonic, carwood is sick with pneumonia, doc roe takes care of him, i based this on a paragraph from the book, it was a ready made "there was only one bed" sickfic, it's probably a little too gay to be platonic though tbh, so of course i had to write a there was only one bed sickfic for it, soft army love, speirton - Freeform, where lipton and speirs bicker about who gets the bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23216116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brianmay_be/pseuds/brianmay_be
Summary: "Lieutenant Speirs and Sergeant Lipton had a room in a German house for the night... The room had only a single bed. Speirs said Lipton should sleep on it. Lipton replied that wasn't right; as an enlisted man, he would sleep in his sleeping bag on the floor. Speirs simply replied, 'You're sick,' which settled it."ORWhen Easy comes into the town of Alsace for the night, Carwood and Ron are billeted together in a room with one bed. Carwood's got pneumonia, Ron is fretting over him, and both think the other should have the bed.★★★Title from the song "These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You)" by Frank Sinatra
Relationships: Carwood Lipton/Ronald Speirs
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	Those Stumbling Words That Told You What My Heart Meant

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on a paragraph from Stephen Ambrose's book "Band of Brothers." I couldn't believe that I had a ready-made "there was only one bed" sickfic for Speirton, and of course, my brain took that and ran with it. That said, this fic is based solely off the portrayal from the HBO miniseries and is meant to be taken in that pseudo-fictional universe, and no disrespect is meant to any of the real guys whatsoever.
> 
> Come see me on my hbo war tumblr, @eugenebondurant :)

The night air was bitterly cold, sharp and still like a blanket over the town of Alsace even as the line of Army trucks rumbled through the streets. Carwood got out far earlier than his aching muscles wanted to; he hopped down from the bed of the truck as soon as the lights of the town could be spotted, mindful of his responsibility despite the protests of his body and the men in his truck who urged him to stay put and let somebody else take his job for the night. Carwood would do no such thing, but he appreciated it all the same; he knew without a doubt that most of his friends and fellow soldiers would gladly take on the walking patrol for him and let him rest, but he wasn’t one to shirk his duties, even when sick, and especially not when he could take any burden and risk away from his men.

He fell into step beside the slow-moving caravan, letting the familiar sound of the men’s tired conversation act like a balm to his mind that ran ragged with worries of attacks, endless checklists, and making sure everyone and everything was taken care of. They weren’t expecting any resistance through Alsace, but no soldier worth his salt - especially one just emerging from Bastogne, Foy, and Noville - would let down his guard so easily. Like the other noncoms walking beside their trucks, Carwood kept a sharp eye out for Krauts, hostile townspeople, or even rowdy paratroopers who’d had a bit too much whiskey and a bit too little peace of mind. Their vigilance would pay off when everyone was safely billeted and everyone accounted for.

He muffled a cough in his sleeve, wincing at the sound of it and the accompanying pain in his chest. He wondered briefly if he should check in with a medic before the night was through, but he had other things to worry about before he worried about himself.

“Hey, Sarge,” came a voice from the truck in front of him. Carwood looked up and saw George Luz’s face peek over the tailgate, cheerful as ever despite the shadows under his eyes that told of loss and pain and utter exhaustion.

Carwood gave him a smile. “What’cha need, Luz?”

“You sure you don’t want one of us to take the patrol?” he asked. “You really should try and take it easy. Uh, sir,” he added quickly, lest the first sergeant mistake his concern for insubordination.

Carwood chuckled. “Thanks, Luz,” he said. “But I’m ok. It’s not much longer till we’ll be stopping anyways. You know where you’re billeted?”

“Malark says he does, so I’ll follow him,” Luz said with a grin. “He’s useful, from time to time.”

Carwood shook his head and couldn’t help but smile. “That he is.”

He was going to ask George to see to it that everyone riding with him knew where they were billeted - not that the boys didn’t look out for each other, but it always helped to have a reminder - when he heard his name being called further down the line.

“See you later, Luz,” he said, getting a jokey salute in return, which made him smile. He picked up the pace and jogged down to Lieutenant Foley, who looked a little surprised when Carwood walked alongside him.

“No offense, First Sergeant, but you look like hell,” Foley said.

“None taken,” Carwood said calmly. “Though I can’t imagine I’m worse than most of the men, sir. You needed to see me?”

“Uh, yes,” Foley said, a little sheepish with how smoothly Carwood had diverted the attention away from himself. “I wanted to make sure you knew we don’t have to go ahead with the OP tonight.”

Carwood breathed a sigh of relief. He’d hoped for the men’s sake that they wouldn’t have to bother with setting up an OP on the far edges of town; it would have been more miserable than anything to have to stay awake and alert out in the cold while everyone else was sleeping in warm houses. He’d thought about who he’d pick for OP duty if it had been needed; aside from himself, he couldn’t bring himself to choose anyone. He was glad he didn’t have to.

“Thank you, sir,” he said. “The men will be very happy to hear that.”

He and Foley slowed as the trucks rumbled to a stop in what looked like the city square, men unloading themselves and what little gear they had onto the icy cobblestones and awaiting direction.

“Get some rest, First Sergeant,” Foley said. “The men need you in fighting form.”

“Yes, sir,” Carwood said obediently, knowing as well as Foley did that the noncoms wouldn’t rest until all the men were settled. “I better try and get the guys headed in the right direction.”

He and Foley parted ways, Foley to look after his platoon and Carwood to find anyone who looked lost, especially the replacements. The only thing those kids had ever known of war was the front lines, and they could probably use some help getting to where they needed to go.

He was especially keen on easing the veterans into a position of friendly responsibility for the replacements, reminding them that they had been just as green and just as eager to please as these kids were. He found a few stragglers and told them within earshot of the veterans to stick to their sergeants and corporals; their squads would most likely be billeted together, and it was a safe bet to follow their noncoms. Even the surliest of veterans couldn’t easily protest when Carwood shepherded one of the replacements over to them, and Carwood felt confident that concern for their fellow soldier would override any reservations they might have.

He had just steered a replacement barely eighteen years old into Bull’s kind and compassionate circle of influence when Lieutenant Speirs walked up to him, helmet held under his arm, messy curls falling over his forehead.

“Lipton,” he said by way of greeting, his usually stern features softened by tiredness. “Are the men getting settled?”

“Yes, sir,” Carwood answered. “I think Sergeant Randleman’s is the last squad to get into their billets. Everyone else is accounted for.”

Speirs gave a relieved sigh. “Good. Thank you. Do you know where you’re billeted?”

Carwood shook his head. “No, sir.”

“Me either,” Speirs said. “Come on, let’s see what we can find out.”

Carwood walked with the Lieutenant as the empty trucks started to depart, content to let Speirs find someone to give them directions. Now that he knew the boys were settled, he was starting to feel the weight of his own exhaustion; worse, his body was starting to give up on the defenses he’d shored up against his illness. He felt the chill all the way through to his bones, and every breath he drew rattled and ached in his chest.

Carwood felt Speirs’ gaze on him as they walked, particularly after a rough volley of coughs that seemed to take more energy than he had left. He recovered and huddled further into his jacket, cradling his rifle in his arms that crossed over his chest.

“You sound terrible, Lipton,” Speirs said.

Carwood gave a dry laugh. “Thank you, sir.”

“No, I mean it,” Speirs said, his voice colored with concern. “Have you gotten that checked out?”

Carwood shook his head. “Haven’t gotten around to it, sir.”

Speirs huffed. “Well, I can’t blame you. But you’re seeing a medic before you sack out, and that’s an order.”

Carwood sighed. “Yes, sir.”

“In fact - ” Speirs waved someone over; Carwood didn’t have the energy to see who. “Let’s get that done now, and then we’ll find out where we’re staying, and we can go straight there.”

Carwood didn’t miss how Speirs kept saying “we”; he felt a warmth that took the edge off the night air at the Lieutenant’s concern for him. He let Speirs steer him to sit on the bed of a truck that was still idling, allowing Speirs to take his helmet off for him almost tenderly and gently prying his rife from his stiff arms.

“Doc Roe’s going to take a look at you,” Speirs said.

Carwood looked up and met the brown eyes of the Cajun medic, kind despite their tiredness. “Hey, First Sergeant,” Roe said calmly. “What’s going on?”

Carwood shrugged. “Cough. It’s been pretty bad for a day or so.” It was no use lying to Doc Roe; not only would it not help, he would also be able to see through it in a second. The medic had become so accustomed to Easy Company’s tells that he could read every man like a book when it came to their health.

“Okay,” Doc Roe said kindly. He fished around in his bag and pulled out a thermometer, which Carwood dutifully took in his mouth as Roe continued to check him over.

“Dry cough or wet cough?” he asked.

“Wet,” Carwood said around the thermometer.

“Any chest pain when you breathe or cough?”

Carwood nodded. 

“I’d ask if you were tired and achy, but I think you’d be feeling that way even if you weren’t sick.”

Carwood gave a soft laugh at that and was pleased to see a small smile tip the medic’s lips. Doc Roe took the thermometer out of his mouth and moved to see it better in the light of a streetlamp.

“Yeah, that’s quite a fever you’ve got there, Sarge,” he said. “It’s probably pneumonia.” 

Carwood appreciated how easily he delivered the news; there was no hint of alarm or fear in his voice, and it did wonders for his nerves, and, he suspected, Speirs’ nerves as well. The Lieutenant had been standing beside them the whole time, giving Doc Roe room to work but still close. 

“I guess I shouldn’t even try to convince you to get evacuated,” Roe said.

Carwood gave a breath of a laugh. “That’s probably wise. I can’t leave, not when we just got here.”

“I figured,” Roe said, sticking the thermometer back in his bag and taking a small metal case out. “In that case, I’m gonna give you a shot of penicillin to see if that helps clear things up, and I want you to come find me or send someone for me in the morning so I can check you again. Alright?”

“Alright,” Carwood agreed. He’d often mused on how much authority medics had in a company; any man would be loath to disregard their orders, higher ranking or not. Carwood had no desire to go against what Doc Roe ordered; he was just thankful that Doc Roe was willing to make one last check-up when he was just as dog-tired as everyone else.

Roe administered the shot in his upper arm, the twinge of pain that normally wouldn’t have bothered him at all somehow magnified in his already sore body.

“Thanks, Doc,” Carwood said, pulling his jacket over his shoulder again and taking his helmet and rifle back from Speirs as he stood. “Get some rest.”

“Yeah, you too,” Roe admonished. He exchanged friendly nods with Speirs before he turned to go, placing everything neatly back in his medical kit.

Carwood looked up at Speirs. “You should find out where you’re billeted, sir.”

“We both should,” Speirs answered, easily deflecting any hidden insinuation that it was a burden to be looking after the First Sergeant. They walked together to where the officers and their assistants were circled, making sure everything that needed to get done tonight was done.

“Anybody know where we’re supposed to be?” Speirs asked, without any of the formalities that Carwood would have had to employ. Sticking with a Lieutenant when you were nearly too gone to carry a conversation did have its perks, Carwood thought.

Sergeant Vest shuffled through the paperwork he kept on his person at all times. “For you, Lieutenant Speirs, says here I’m to deliver your mail to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Boucher, which is...” He handed the paper to Speirs, who looked the address over and received vague directions about where in the city the house might be.

“‘Butcher’ in French,” Speirs said with a tired laugh, handing the paper back to Vest. “Mr. and Mrs. Butcher. Sounds delightful. You got an address for First Sergeant Lipton in there, too?”

Vest thumbed through his papers. “Uh, right here.” He scanned the paper. “He’s with the Bouchers too. Same house.”

“Thank you,” Speirs said, readjusting his rifle strap on his shoulder. He turned to Captain Winters. “Anything we can do, Dick?”

Winters shook his head. “Everything’s taken care of, thankfully. We’re just about to turn in. You two saw to it that the men got squared away?”

“All settled,” Speirs agreed.

“Good,” Winters said. “Colonel Sink wants a meeting tomorrow, so be at battalion CP by 0900.” The redheaded captain looked his First Sergeant over, concern and compassion in his expression, and Carwood knew Winters hadn’t missed his visit with Doc Roe.

“We’d be glad to have you at the battalion meeting, Lipton, but your presence isn’t required.”

Carwood straightened his shoulders and met his captain’s gaze. “Thank you, sir, but I’ll be there. I want to have all the information I can to help the men.”

Winters nodded, as familiar as any of them with muscling through sickness and exhaustion to do his job.

“We’ll see you in the morning, then,” he said. Turning to Speirs, he said, “Ron, could I have a moment before you go?”

Carwood stepped back to a respectful distance as Speirs moved closer to Winters, their conversation low enough to not be intelligible over the last truck engines and the tapering conversations of the exhausted officers. He didn’t need to hear what they were saying to know what they were talking about, though. Speirs bid Winters good night and came back over to Carwood, starting them in the direction of the home of Mr. and Mrs. Boucher.

“I really am fine, Lieutenant,” Carwood said as they walked together.

A smile quirked the corners of Speirs’ mouth. “Awfully self-important of you to assume the captain wanted to talk to me about you, Lipton.”

Carwood felt himself flush with more than fever, immediately wishing he’d bitten his tongue. “Sorry, sir,” he said quickly. “I didn’t - ”

“It’s ok, Lipton,” Speris said with a chuckle. “I was only joking. We were talking about you, as you so astutely guessed, and I assured him you’d get some rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Carwood said. He tried to let the sound of Speirs’ laugh ease his worries of having insulted him or being insubordinate.

Speirs looked over at him after a moment. “You don’t know quite what to make of me, do you, First Sergeant?”

 _That’s an understatement_ , Carwood thought. “How do you mean, sir?”

Speirs shrugged. “You’re not afraid of me.”

“No sir,” Carwood agreed. “I’m not afraid of you.”

“Nor do you believe those stories about me.”

Carwood caught a cough against his sleeve. “No, I don’t.” It wasn’t that he thought Speirs wasn’t a brave, tough, formidable soldier - he was glad Speirs was on their side, and was thankful to have him as their leader. He just had never been able to reconcile the heartlessness of the stories he’d heard about Speirs with the man he knew. Even when he was C.O. of Dog company and their contact had been limited and formal, Carwood had always thought of Speirs as a fair, reasonable man who would never be so nonchalant with another man’s life.

The stories had their use, Carwood knew; but he, for one, didn’t put any stock in them.

Speirs studied Carwood’s face in the light of a streetlamp. “But you have your reservations about me.”

“That’s not true,” Carwood said sincerely. “I think you’re a good leader and a good soldier. I think Easy’s lucky to have you.”

“I don’t mean about Easy and being a soldier and all that,” Speirs amended. “I mean, thank you, but that’s not what I was getting at. I just meant... I don’t know, as a person. As a friend.”

Carwood looked up. “A friend, sir?”

Speirs couldn’t help a soft chuckle. “Yeah, Lipton, a friend. Someone you don’t have to call ‘sir’ all the time, or ‘Lieutenant’.”

Carwood frowned. “And call you just... just ‘Speirs’?” he asked. It sounded wrong coming out of his mouth, like it was disrespectful.

Speirs shrugged. “Or you could just call me Ron.”

Carwood was so surprised he drew a sharp breath that quickly dissolved into a cough. Speirs slowed to let Carwood catch his breath, putting a steadying hand on his arm.

“I’m fine,” he managed when he could breathe again.

“I know,” Speirs said easily. “Doesn’t hurt to take a second, though, and make sure.”

They started to walk again, and it didn’t escape Carwood’s notice that Speirs had slowed their pace.

“You could’ve just said no,” Speirs said.

Carwood looked up at him. He could hear the teasing in the Lieutenant’s voice but was still keen on erring on the side of caution. “What do you mean?”

Speirs smiled. “Instead of nearly choking to death, you could have just said you didn’t want to call me Ron. I wouldn’t have been offended.”

Carwood allowed himself a small smile. “Sir, if I was only pretending to have pneumonia, it would be for something a bit more important than not offending you.”

Speirs laughed then, a comforting sound so different than the sounds Carwood had learned to associate with war, especially from officers. It had been a long time since he’d heard a laugh like that, and he drank it in as deeply as he could.

“Rightly so,” Speirs said with a smile. It struck Carwood that Speirs’ features were more suited to that smile than the serious scowl he’d seen so often; it made him think that Speirs must have smiled a lot in peacetime. He found himself wishing he’d known Speirs before the war, and hoping to know him after it was over.

“So, what about it?” Speirs asked. “Could you manage dropping the formalities? Or is it all too anti-Army?”

Carwood chuckled and shook his head. “I’ll try, sir.” Then, after a moment, “I guess you could call me Carwood, if you wanted.”

“You guess? I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

He looked up at Speirs. “No, it’s... it might be kind of nice. Nobody in the Army’s ever called me by my first name.”

“Ah, so there is a little bit of anti-Army in you after all,” Speirs said with a grin. “Ok, Carwood. That’s a hell of a name.”

Carwood laughed. “Thank you.”

They reached the home of Mr. and Mrs. Boucher, the warm light from inside spilling out into the street where the two officers stood and waited patiently for someone to come to the door after they’d knocked. If Speirs had been worried the Bouchers might live up to their name, he was let down; the door opened to reveal a tiny, old woman with long silver hair and a surprisingly gentle smile.

“ _Amerikanisch_?” she asked.

“ _Ja_ ,” Speirs answered. “Mrs. Boucher?”

She smiled. “ _Ja, willkommen_.”

She opened the door wider and let them in, closing the door on the cold night behind them as they stood just inside, waiting for direction. She seemed perfectly at ease with two strange soldiers in her home and beckoned them closer to the fire. Her husband strode over from the kitchen doorway, greeting them each with a smile and a handshake.

“Hello,” he said jovially, in heavily accented English. “Very good to have you here.”

“Thank you,” Speirs said, returning the man’s smile. Carwood let Speirs do the talking, muffling a few rattling coughs in his sleeve, his head swimming with fever and exhaustion.

“ _Sind se krank_?” Mrs. Boucher asked, concern etched on her face.

“Your man is sick?” Mr. Boucher translated, asking Speirs.

Carwood gave a surprised chuckle as Mrs. Boucher tutted and put a warm hand to his cheek. “I’m alright,” he said with a smile. “ _Ich bin gut._ ”

“ _Liebling_ ,” she cooed. _Darling_. Carwood had heard parents call their children that, and it made his chest warm with affection for Mrs. Boucher.

“ _Kommen sie_ ,” she said, taking his hand. He’d said that to prisoners enough to know what it meant, and he was thankful he was going to a much better fate than an Army prison. He met Speirs’ eyes, asking if he should go with her, and he nodded with an amused smile.

“ _Papa, mach bitte tee und schnapps fur die soldaten_ ,” she said as she led Carwood out of the living room and down the hall.

“ _Ja_ , _mama_ ,” he heard Mr. Boucher say. Carwood followed her into a small but homey bedroom, a fire crackling cheerily in the grate and a colorful quilt on the four-poster.

“ _Gut_?” she asked him, studying his face.

He smiled down at her. “ _Ja, danke_ ,” he said sincerely. He would have been happy for anything that wasn’t a snowy foxhole, and this tidy, cosy bedroom was more than he’d dared hoped for. This was a greater kindness to them than the Bouchers could ever know, he felt incredibly grateful to them while she patted his hand and smiled up at him.

“ _Gut_ ,” she said, satisfied. “ _Ich werde nachdeinem tee sehen_.”

He didn’t know what she’d said, but she gave his hand a gentle squeeze and went back out to Speirs and her husband, leaving Carwood at the door of the bedroom. He suddenly wanted nothing more than to get into bed and sleep for a week, but he checked himself; Speirs should get the bed, since he was a Lieutenant. It wouldn’t be right for Carwood to take the bed and leave Speirs to sleep on the floor.

Though his body protested, he didn’t have a bit of hesitation or resentment in his mind about it. He would take the floor, and he was grateful for it; it was warm and dry and safe, much better than sleeping in the snow among tree bursts and German artillery. Compared to what he’d been living through, what all the men of his company had been living through, the hardwood floor of this little French house was heaven on earth.

He took off his helmet and set down his rifle, half-listening to the sound of quiet conversation coming from the living room, unable to keep a smile from his face when he heard Speirs’ laugh. 

_Maybe we could be friends_ , he thought as he took the woolen blanket from his pack and spread it out on the floor. _Carwood and Ron_. He gave a soft laugh. He liked the sound of that.


End file.
